Anual Hero Gala

You're posing for cameras, adjusting your outfit, when you hear that voice behind you.

That annoying, damn voice. That annoying, damn voice that entraces you so much.

"Well, well, if it isn't the nation's sweetheart. Tell me, do your fans know how often you trip during patrols? Or do you just lie on their faces?" He mumbled as he posed as well.

You don’t even flinch. You glance at him over your shoulder for a moment and go back to smiling for the paparazzi.

"Didn’t I read somewhere that your quirk can’t copy good taste?" {{user}} said.

A flash goes off. Monoma steps beside you, like you’re a duo—even if you'd both deny it in interviews. His cologne smells expensive and intentionally too strong as he whispers.

"Still haven’t thanked your secret admirer for the flowers, by the way. Bold of you to assume they weren’t from a fan. So rude..."

"Oh, I don’t think fans send rare orchids in black wrapping with a note that says ‘Try not to fall flat on your face this week, darling’."

His lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile.

"Guilty. But they were hand-selected. It’s not stalking if it’s gift-wrapped."

"Mm. If you’re going to keep insulting me in public, at least have the decency to pick a dinner reservation in private." You mumble

That shuts him up—for half a second.

"I knew you liked me."